One day, Eames brings doughnuts.

"Ah, pastries," he exclaims, setting the dozen (minus the ones Eames has eaten already) confections down on Arthur's workspace with gusto. "There's nothing quite like a good bite of fried dough in the morning to perk you up, is there?"

Arthur glares at him out of the corner of his eye and tugs his papers out from under the box. Peter Browning's unsuspecting face now sports a quarter-sized stain. Fischer Jr.'s papery back is the new site of a rather ugly oil spill. "It's 8:30, Eames. In the evening." What he doesn't say is that Eames has been out all day, but Arthur kindly decides not to bring it up.

"Sod off. Morning's whenever I decide to wake up, as far as I'm concerned. Time's got nothing to do with it," Eames drawls, flapping a dismissive hand— the one that delivered the box. He finishes the doughnut he was eating when he came in and licks the sticky filling from his other set of fingers.

Arthur does his best not to think about what those words entail. "That's the biggest BS I've ever heard."

"Don't be daft," comes the expected reply, accompanied by a wagging, formerly cream-covered digit. "I know you've seen bigger BS than that, darling."

He is ignored.

The Forger only guffaws heartily at the lack of reaction and reaches for the lid. "Come on, I even thought to bring your favorite. With the little sprinkles on top," he adds, smirk broadening impishly. He takes to wiggling his hand in the air for emphasis.

"I don't like sprinkles."

"What? Oh, I'm sorry— Are you questioning my infallible memory?"

"No, I'm questioning your taste in doughnuts. But now that I think about it," Arthur deadpans, not looking up from wiping the grease off Fischer Morrow's executives, "sprinkles suit you in a way I hadn't thought of before."

Eames gasps and looks pleasantly affronted. "Why, do you think me often, Arthur dear?"

"You know what, Eames—"

There's the squeak of a rusty door hinge, and the two simultaneously turn heads to the source, doughnuts and sprinkles momentarily forgotten.

"G'morning, Dom," Eames calls first, noting Cobb's obvious wake-up dreariness. "Have any good dreams lately?"

"Evening, Cobbs," Arthur says after, shooting a look at Eames.

"Oh, ...Eames." The way Cobbs says the name is like he would say an explanation to the reason why the world goes round (or, at least, why his Point Man is so riled up at the moment). His voice still hasn't lost a gravely undertone from hours of disuse. The man himself arrives on the scene with a hand still rubbing at his eye, stubble dotting the lines of his lower face. To those that notice— or care, which would namely mean: Arthur— his wrist still wears a slight redness from the needles it's been harboring until only a moment ago. "Are those doughnuts?"

"Why, yes they are! Care for one, Dom?"

Dom Cobbs's weak smile is almost free of the haunted look they've come to associate with their leader. "Don't mind if I do." The one he plucks from the proffered selection is the dark maple, slathered in rich chocolate glaze. Arthur watches, contemplatively; The Extractor takes a bite and rolls the piece over in his mouth before chewing slowly. Savoring. "Thanks."

Eames is already reaching for a second cream-filled, white custard overflow leaving drips in the cardboard container. "Y'welcome," he says between wolfish bites. He drags his rolling chair from the desk in the corner that's supposed to be his (it's quite neglected, covered with a layer of dust) and takes it upon himself to effectively block the view from Arthur's desk. Cobbs takes the chaise nearest the two, munching on maple chocolate as he reclines.

Finally giving in to the scent of sugar and the fact that he ran out of coffee hours ago, the Point Man sighs and rises from his seat. To his credit, the Brit only smirks at him as the box is swiped from his hands. Cream lines a corner of his mouth.

There, in the corner. Next to a doughnut identical to it in every way except for its literal second skin of rainbow sprinkles, since apparently Eames hadn't been kidding about buying one to taunt him with. With a deft pinch maneuver, Arthur dislocates his target from a blob of both Eames's drippings and stray bits of technicolor, then carefully hands the box back, like a gentleman would. He settles himself on a file-free corner of the desk and inspects the glaze.

"Old-fashioned." The gleam in the other man's eyes is a menace. "Suits a boring old bloke like you."

It takes most of Arthur's remaining energy not to react. He redirects his irritation to reducing a chunk of his doughnut to paste between his molars and imagines it's something important of Eames's instead. Like a vital body part.

"How's your work on Browning coming along?"

It's just like Cobbs to ask about their work, even on an unofficial 'break'— though neither of his teammates can blame him. This was an important job... if not because what they were attempting was universally accepted as an impossibility, then because when it came to family, Cobbs would do nearly anything. Arthur can only hope that this time, with enough preparation, that the 'w' in 'would' should magically translate into a 'c'. For all their sakes.

Eames scratches his chin. "Not bad, actually," He says. "It wasn't all that difficult. Just time-consuming. I should have a good position by the end of this week. A few days even, if I'm lucky."

"If you're lucky," Arthur repeats, earning himself an eyeroll.

"The sooner the better," is Cobbs's only reply. "We don't know how much time we have, considering Fischer Sr.'s poor health."

A snort echoes through the warehouse. "I'll say. Gotta admire the man, though. S'not easy knowing your bucket's just about ready to be kicked... I wouldn't like it, I'll make that much clear."

"Huh. You and me both," Cobbs concurs, and Arthur agrees in characteristic silence. Silence permeates the atmosphere for awhile, interrupted intermittently by the sound of eating; the only noise otherwise is the tapping of a finger against a notepad. Arthur is looking through what papers aren't soiled.

Cobbs clears his throat of chocolate buildup and takes another bite. "So... where's Ariadne? And Yusuf?"

"Ariadne's in class. She should be here before the hour's up, though." The Point Man frowns at the sugar that's flaked onto his lap before continuing. "Not sure what our Chemist is doing."

"He's missing out on bloody good doughnuts, that's what he's doing," Eames interjects candidly, straightening in his chair before slumping again and crossing his legs. Arthur notices he's already finished his second doughnut. It looks like he's contemplating a third, the way he's looking at the box in his lap.

In the end he does take another pastry, this time jelly-filled, and Arthur mentally rolls his eyes. The man can't help himself.

They all perk at the sound of footsteps.

"Arthur? Cobbs?" It's unmistakable, that voice— they haven't had a female on their team in months. Maybe a year. Not since Mal...

They can hear her sneakers squeak more distinctly against the floor as she approaches; one or more of the men marvel at how she got in this far without them noticing.

"Ariadne." Cobbs's ghost of a smile returns, if for a moment. He sits up as she comes to a stop before the three men. "How've you been?"

"Good," she replies, as if she isn't talking to a man who taught her ways to turn her life upside-down (no pun intended) only a few days ago. Then she pauses. "Who's this?" Eames turns a measuring (not at all lewd) eye on her as she looks between Arthur and Cobb for the identity of the stranger with doughnuts.

Arthur clears his throat, reaching for a folder with the hand that isn't covered with sugar. "Nobody important."

Eames kicks him.

When immediately, Ariadne's face splits into an amused grin, Eames decides right then that he likes this girl already despite meeting her now for the first time. "You can call me Eames, love. I'm Arthur's nanny. I assume you've heard of me?" The concentrated glower he's receiving from Arthur, if it could be converted into actual energy, could possibly fry his brains, Eames thinks. It's actually quite impressive he can pull off that look with his mouth full and not look ridiculous at the same time.

The girl shakes her head, curls bouncing. "No..."

"What? What's the meaning of this, Arthur dear, I thought we had a good relationship going. Is this how you're repaying me for bringing you doughnuts, you insufferable wanker?"

"Eames." Like his three-piece suit, Arthur's face is all business; however, the slightest brush of pink that now descends upon his features ruins the perfect image of composure. "Shut up."

Taking pity, Cobbs decides the conversation has devolved enough for now. "Ariadne, this is Eames. Eames, Ariadne." The two nod greetings to each other as Cobbs continues. "Eames is our Forger. He can manipulate his appearance in dreams— essentially become other people," he explains to the girl. "Of course, the visual is only half of it. A Forger needs to be able to mimic nearly every aspect of a person in order to fool the Mark: habits, preferences, speech patterns... Things like that."

"Like a... socially adaptive chameleon?" Ariadne returns Eames's gaze with a little more interest now, as if considering the possibilities of what she's now learned about him.

"A very handsome, socially adaptive chameleon," Eames corrects her, without missing a beat. "Would you care for a doughnut?"

Arthur's attempt to hand her the file in his hand is effectively foiled by the box of sweets that Eames has held out at the same time. As Ariadne hesitantly considers both options offered, Eames watches Arthur closely. There's something like a cancerous frustration worming its way to the surface of his visage before he graciously decides to back off first. Ariadne smiles apologetically as the paper's returned to where it originally sat; Arthur tries gallantly to hide the fact that he's a little ruffled. The way she glances first at Cobbs, then briefly back at Arthur— and the way the latter gives her a tiny shrug— before she finally accepts food, however, isn't lost on the Forger.

Interesting. Eames shelves what he's just seen away in a mental cabinet marked 'blackmail', knowing this will come in handy someday. Hopefully soon.

She has to support her choice with a second slender hand in order to keep rainbows from colouring the floor. After her teeth sink into the pastry, her lips come away with bits of the technicolor coating. Not that Eames was watching.

"You like sprinkles?" he asks past a mouthful of jelly, sharing a one-sided grin with Arthur. Point Man's eyebrows are not amused.

"Not really," says she, looking frustrated with the way she has to handle the doughnut— like an intricate work of art, threatening to disintegrate in her fingers every time she tries to eat it. "I usually eat plain old-fashioned. But I've never seen one covered in sprinkles," she admits with a laugh.

Whether he meant to make it obvious or not, the way Arthur's head snaps to her at this revelation completely gives away his interest.

Eames smiles to himself, wondering if Cobbs is noticing as well, and takes a gander at what kinds are remaining in the near-empty box. "Not much of a jelly or cinnamon fan, eh?" At her tiny shake of the head (sprinkles patter onto her fingers, she's trying so hard to be careful) he makes plans to bring another box of goodies to work in the near future. "More for me, then."

The lawn chaise squeaks in protest as Cobbs rises, the last of the maple bar devoured. "I think I'll get some fresh air. Be back later," he promises, making for the door. He reappears a moment later with a coat in hand. "Thanks for the doughnut, Eames."

"Don't want any more?"

"No, no..." He sounds distracted as he shrugs it on, patting his pockets for his keys. "I'm good. Thanks."

No, not his keys. His totem. The sleek silver top is clenched tightly in his fist when he takes his leave; when the sound of him fades, the warehouse feels a little more hollow in his absence.

Restless all of a sudden, Eames flicks a bit of crumb off his shirt and stands as well. "Well, lady and gentleman," he drawls, "I think I'll be heading out as well. Don't miss me too much, ey, Arthur?"

"I'll try not to," he replies, looking positively oh, so disappointed. Ariadne is a kinder soul; she actually stops to wave. Or tries to, with both hands occupied by dangerously delicate pastry.

Eames pats her shoulder as he passes by. "You'll take care of him for me, won't you, princess?" There's a kind of mischievous twinkle in his eye as he makes for the exit to this place, humming a tune and imagining himself getting a crepe before heading down to check how his 'connections' are doing.

Arthur waits until she finishes her doughnut before giving her the folder. There isn't a single pellet of sprinkle on the ground when she's done.

Hours later, when Ariadne is starting to nod off and Arthur decides that the new Architect has had enough for today, Yusuf returns with a boxload of questionable substances. "Are those doughnuts?" he asks. Arthur hands him the box with one hand, Ariadne's scarf and bag in the other.

Yusuf takes the cinnamon.

Any guesses as to the symbolism in the story?

I don't own Inception.
Written: August 4-5, 2010